


but I can't stop thinkin' bout your face

by AdorabloodthirstyKitty



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Captivity, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty
Summary: Oh, I won't stop, til you knock on my doorWon't stop, til you knock on my doorClouds - BØRNS





	but I can't stop thinkin' bout your face

**Author's Note:**

> this is not a fun story, Dark is not a good person in any way, etc. also, this is just generally really upsetting, even if I didn't go super in depth with it. dark literally kidnaps and keeps Jack locked up in his house because he becomes attached aka obsessed with Jack. there are literally no redeeming qualities about dark. at all. I was half tempted not to post this at all because it's just terrible, but here we are. thank you for reading

_Get home, lock up, visit Jack._

Those were his only thoughts as he made his way home, finally free of the idiots he worked with, away from polished smiles and judgemental eyes and dead stares. He was going home, and he couldn't be more relieved.

He kept his speed constant, careful and precise as he drove out past the more crowded suburbs, through the city and out to the hills, where there was more space between homes, more privacy. He drove up the incline, looking out at a passing neighbor and giving his usual smile and wave, his mask in place. _Act normal, be normal. You're almost home._

He kept his face neutral, bobbing to a song on the radio as he turned into his street, pulling into the driveway on the last house of the culdesac and into the open garage, pressing the button and waiting for the door to shut behind him. His shoulders relaxed, his carefully applied mask slipping, and he stepped out of the car.

He locked up, pulling out his garage key and opening the door, stepping into the mudroom and slipping off his shoes, loosening his tie as he made his way further in. His footsteps echoed in the large, open halls, padding toward the front stairway and up the large, curved staircase, listening to the usual silence, the only sound his muted footfalls.

He stopped in his room, pulling off and depositing his suit in the hamper, heading to the closet and idly flipping through, soon pulling out old slacks and a t-shirt, tapping the tv on and letting the sound of the local news fill the room and echo out into the hall. He checked the time, just after seven, and huffed, picking up the pace as he moved back out and down the stairs, down a few halls and stopping, finally, at an unremarkable white door, away from the rest of the rooms, away from prying eyes. He paused one last time, listening for any sign he may not be alone, listening for anything at all. Only the muted, far-away sound of the tv from upstairs greeted him, pulling out his key ring and unlocking the deadbolt before stepping inside.

Upon first glance, the basement was unimpressive. Brick walls, a few boxes here and there. It was painfully normal, just as he wanted it to be. Just as he designed it to be. He stepped past boxes of papers, photo albums and taxes filed away. He weaved through a small corridor or boxes of belongings, an old bike sitting against a wall. He turned toward the corner of the room, stopping at a large, heavy-looking suitcase, bending down and soon finding another small set of keys between boxes, unlocking the trunk. Instead of papers or old photos, clothes or keepsakes, was a door. Wood, heavy and sturdy, with locks along the side. He went about unlocking each lock, the sound of the door opening the only sound for one short moment.

He stepped down onto the stairs, slipping the shoes on that sat at the landing as he pulled the door shut above his head, locking the door shut behind him. His footfalls echoed down the stair as he made his way down, and with it came a familiar voice.

"Evening, Dark."

Dark smiled, just barely, eyes finding the small room in the corner, eyes falling on bright, familiar eyes, somewhat dulled but no less beautiful.

"Good evening, Jack."

There Jack stood, so small and fragile as he stepped up to the glass wall encasing him, eyes fixed on Dark as they usually were. He was even paler then he had been when Dark first met him, like moonlight, and Dark couldn't help but marvel at how pretty he was.

"How was work?"

"Long and boring as always," he hummed, making his way toward the makeshift kitchen to the right, opening the small fridge to search it's contents.

"I'm gonna have to head to the store soon, you'll be alright, won't you?"

"Always am."

"Of course you are."

He shut the door, turning to look out at him yet again, his profile still so intriguing even after all these weeks.

"I'll be back soon, alright? I'll make your dinner as soon as I get back."

"I'll be here," Jack replied, voice falling into something more somber, subdued.

Dark walked back into the main room, right up to the glass. Big blue eyes met his easily, Jack's pretty face calm, sad. He let his eyes study him just a bit longer, unable to pull his gaze away from his little caged bird, something so pretty and bright.

"I'll be back within the hour."

And with that he spun on his heel and left, back up the stairs and to the door, unlocking each lock and stepping up into the painfully boring basement, making sure to leave his shoes on the landing just inside the hidden room.

"I'll be here," was Jack's faint reply, and Dark smiled as he shut and locked the door yet again, locking the trunk that hid it so well before heading back out again, changing clothes, and heading to the car and to the store.

-

As soon as he heard the garage door shut again he got to work.

A few days ago he had managed to distract Dark long enough to steal a spoon, hiding it inside of the mattress he was given, the only furniture in the glass room. He crouched down and flipped it up enough to get to the small slit he'd made hidden in a seam, feeling around until he grabbed the utensil. He'd had some time to work on it, but it still wasn't sharp enough. If he was going to get out of here he only had one shot, and he was going to take it. He would not die under this asshole's basement, buried under cement and dead dogs and roses or chopped up and burned, or whatever the fuck he did with the victims before him. He would not be another victim, another corpse to be found years later.

He was going to survive.

He hurried to the brick wall, moving the mattress enough that he could continue sharpening the spoon edges against it, quick, hard strokes that bounced around the otherwise silent room. It was almost ready, he could do this. He was getting out.

He ran through his plan again, recalling which key went to the plexiglass door, reinforced and solid, just like the walls. He knew there were three locks on the door at the stairs into this space, that he was underground, most likely in a basement or even a room under the basement. He would have to book it out of here as quickly as possible, get outside and run. He had no idea where he was being kept, but as long as he could find someone, anyone to help, he could get to the police and tell them everything and finally be back in the safety of his own home.

How long had it been since he was brought here? Days? Weeks? He only had a sense of time when Dark came and went, and even then he had no idea how long he'd been kept when he was unconscious, or the times he'd get sick, when Dark had poisoned his food and fed him pills when he first was brought here, just to make sure he didn't leave.

He kept sharpening, mind running through the plan for the millionth time, the sharp, loud sound of metal on stone background noise as he focused.

Would he be able to kill Dark, if it came to it? He kept sharpening, but the thought remained prominent in his mind.

If he didn't kill Dark, Dark wouldn't allow him out. He would kill him before he let him out again. It was either knock him completely unconscious, or kill him. His grip on the handle tightened, swallowing past the anxiety already turning his stomach.

He was going to survive this, no matter what.


End file.
